A/N: Welcome to the ridiculous Empire Records AU! Huge, huge thanks to my artist partners, thesockswhowearsfox and Sleepmarshes. Additional thanks to Sleepmarshes and ProMa for their camaraderie and beta-reading skills. This fic has a companion music playlist, cover art, and original music. Links will be available in the fic and on my profile!
They were $3000 short this month, even if he counted digital payments and gift cards.
Shit.
Kid rubbed his hands over his face, hoping that when he opened his eyes and looked at the safe again, it would magically be full of money.
Nope. Was that a cobweb in the corner? His fingers itched for one of the Swiffer dusters he kept stashed in the desk drawer. He bit the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge, and replaced the deposit pouch before closing the safe. Tomorrow it'd go straight to the bank.
This was bad. Really bad. Ever since Gorgon Sisters Music moved to Death City, he'd been steadily hemorrhaging customers. Turned out quirky old-school record stores like his dad's shop didn't hold quite the hipster appeal the did even a few years ago. Not when the competition looked like a Apple store married a Brookstone and had a spoiled rotten asshole kid covered in chrome and massage chairs with headphone jacks and giant video game screens. Macabre Records had a flea market television and a barely functional Xbox by the bargain bins.
His fingernails cut into his hand and he clenched his fist tighter, letting the pain ground him and keep him from spiraling into the echo chamber inside his head. He was a failure, he was a disappointment, he was a mistake, the lowest of the low, a complete and total...
Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispered, "This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass." The panic rising in his throat didn't disappear, but it did sink back down to rejoin the knot where his stomach used to be. Months of barely staying out of the red didn't do nice things to his appetite.
He'd had to clean out the store's emergency fund and forego his own paycheck, but he'd made sure he wouldn't have to fire anyone. Not this month, anyway.
Shit.
A sharp rap on the office window ripped him out of his swirling thoughts and he turned to find Black Star tapping his naked wrist like he was wearing a wristwatch, which he wasn't because Black Star didn't believe time applied to him.
"Yo, it's quitting time," Black Star said. "Front's all closed up. Pack it in and let's go, El Jefe."
Kid sighed to the ceiling and asked the spirit of his dearly departed father what he'd done to inherit his old classmate as his longest-term employee. Obnoxious, anti-authority, terrible with customers. If they weren't friends, he'd probably fire him.
Probably.
He was the only one who could carry three boxes of stock at once, though. It made inventory days a breeze.
Forcing himself to unclench his fists, he took a deep breath and put on a neutral face as he opened his door and came out into the break room. Other than Black Star, everyone else had gone home close to an hour ago. No one liked sticking around when it was Star's turn to close. He tried to rope everyone into games of Frisbee with the 99-cent used CDs.
Kid glanced at the wall above the threadbare employee couch and spotted a silvery piece of plastic still embedded in the plaster from the last incident.
Black Star bounced on the balls of his feet, the living personification of kinetic energy. Always in motion.
"I got a game of midnight flag football to get to, dude," Black Star said. "We done?"
"Yeah, I just have to... damn it," Kid said. "I didn't grab Patty's cash drawer. She always forgets to bring it back here. Just go to your game. I'll finish locking up."
"Not like you to forget," Star said, narrowing his eyes.
Kid bristled. "Excuse me for not being perfect."
Black Star crossed his arms and looked Kid up and down. For all his Bro-with-a-capital-B persona, the dude was surprisingly observant. "You are perfect, though," he said. "It's kinda your thing."
"Will you get out of here already?" Kid snapped. "You obviously want to go."
"Whoa, homeslice, whoa. Don't tear my head off." Black Star tilted his spiky blue-haired head to the side. "Actually, on second thought, try. Bet I could fight you off with one hand."
"You're a grade-A fuckwit and I don't know why my dad gave you this job." Kid shoved past him toward the front of the store.
Black Star caught him by the arm. "Seriously, what crawled up your ass and died? Since when do you get all dickhead about my job?"
Kid gave an exasperated sigh. "Since there may be no job to come back to in two weeks because we are broke. Completely broke. Broke-ass broke. Are there more ways can I explain how broke we are? I don't know, let me Google it. B-R-O-K-E-A-S-F-U-C-K."
For possibly the first time since Kid had known him, Black Star looked dumbstruck.
Now that he was on a roll, Kid kept going. "The Gorgon Sisters have been breathing down my neck to sell, and I think I might have to. Plus, you-know-what is tomorrow and I'm done, Star, I'm so done. Tomorrow's going to make or break us. This is it. This is as far as I go."
"Get out of here," Star said, jerking his head toward the back door.
Kid blinked at him. "What?"
"Go home, man. I'll get the drawer, I'll recount the money, I'll take it to the drop box at the bank. You need to get out of here and take a bath or arrange your paperclip collection or do whatever you do to de-stress before you spontaneously combust."
"I don't..." Kid started. "That's not a good idea. There's too much to prep for, and I have to figure out how I'm going to make sure everyone gets paid next period, and I have to check up on our guest's flight status, and —"
Black Star picked Kid up, threw him over his shoulder, and hauled him to the door. Once he'd been placed safely outside, Star handed him his bag.
"It's gonna be fine. Star's got this."
Kid gripped his bag so hard his knuckles turned white. "You're talking in the third person. That is historically a very bad indicator."
Star grinned and flashed a peace sign before slamming the door in Kid's face.
Once he was reasonably sure Kid had finally given up and gone to find his car, Black Star went straight to the safe, opened it, and took out the deposit pouch. He flipped it into the air and caught it.
"Come on, baby," he said. "In the immortal words of Wu-Tang, cash rules everything around me, and you know I hate being anything but the supreme ruler. Dolla dolla bill, y'all."
It was fitting that Black Star strolled beneath the multicolored lights of Caesars Palace at exactly midnight. If he had to miss flag football, it would only do to spend his time somewhere befitting a god. Most Death City inhabitants considered Vegas a complete waste of time and cash, but Star had a certain fondness for the bright, loud, overwrought absurdity of The Strip. It just suited him. Who knew why.
Weeknights mean nothing in Sin City, so the inebriated crowds were still going strong. The clatter of slot machines and dull throb of shitty pop music filled the air like the cigarette smoke. Which, coincidentally, also filled the air.
Star paused in front of a fountain and fixed his eyes on the marble-encased gods staring blankly back at him.
"You and me, Poseidon, you fish-fucking weirdo," he said, jabbing a thumb into his own chest. "Time to pay up."
The casino floor looked like every other casino floor in Vegas - machines, bright lights, and old alcoholics for miles. It smelled like eleven-dollar bottom-shelf margaritas and destroyed dreams. He breathed it in with confidence and headed straight for the roulette tables.
A small crowd already played, but he paid them no mind as he casually walked up and plopped half the cash on "black" and the other half on "even." The woman to his left boggled at the stack of bills and the attendant didn't even bat an eye.
The wheel turned round and round, the little white ball clattering every which way until at last it slowed and settled.
Twenty-six black. Just getting warmed up.
The attendant stacked chips on top of the cash and removed the marker. Black Star gathered his winnings and place the whole shebang on "3rd 12."
"Drink for you, sir?" asked a server with a full tray of cocktails.
Without looking away, Black Star grabbed a jack and coke and threw it back. He tossed a chip onto the server's tray and rubbed his hands together.
"That's a good ball. Keep your god happy."
The ball fell into a new slot. Another win. The chips were getting higher and more people were gathering to watch.
"Wow," said a blonde-haired kid about Star's own age. "Where'd you pick up your luck, man?"
Star leaned back and laughed. "No luck necessary when you're this awesome, my friend."
Another win later, he was pretty sure he'd won enough to keep Macabre Records in business for another year. People of all ages and genders gathered around the table, some putting down their own bets and hoping whatever fire fueled Star's blood would rub off on them as well. They buzzed with excitement, waiting to see what he'd do next. The marble gods watched from the sconces above, silently musing on this wild young player.
He raised his hand and the crowd went quiet, though the affect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that no one else in the casino gave a shit.
Black Star kissed two fingers and raised them in the air. He said, "This one's for you and the Skull, Kid."
He put down his bet. "Everything on Eight Black."
The crowd gasped. Everything on a single number. There was no way. He couldn't!
But he did, and he threw back another jack and coke while he was at it.
Out of the corner of his eye, Star spotted a few members of the security detail eyeballing him. Vegas, man. Ah well, this would be his last game. Then he'd return to Death City, flush with cash and pride, and put it all in the bank. Well, maybe he'd give himself a nice bonus first. Either way, Kid would wake up tomorrow without a worry. The shop wasn't going anywhere.
The ball spun slower, and slower, and slower.
Everyone held their breath as it stuttered over the tops of the numbers.
And fell directly into Twelve Red.
Silence fell. As much silence as can fall in a packed casino, anyway.
Without any fanfare, the crowd dispersed and the attendant raked up all the winnings, including Kid's cash.
An older man clapped a hand on Black Star's shoulder and said, "Son, I sure hope that wasn't your life savings or nothin'."
He continued to stare at the space on the table that the money used to occupy. Then he looked up at the carved gods laughing down at him.
"Well, it's not like he can hold it against me for trying to help, right?" he said.
No one responded.